


CROSSVILLE, TENNESSEE

by Wolfiekins



Series: DARK ROADS [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's feelings toward Dean continue to evolve, and after nearly being killed and a boatload of booze, he finally realizes that there's only one thing to be done about it.</p>
<p>WARNINGS:  Adult Language & Situations, Angst, Violence, Slash, UST</p>
            </blockquote>





	CROSSVILLE, TENNESSEE

**Author's Note:**

> Sam and Dean maneuver a mine field of muddled emotions and murky expectations as they search for the Demon that killed their mother. Rambling series that begins partway through season one and explores how the brothers come to terms with their mutual attraction for one another. Part four of five.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All SUPERNATURAL characters and settings remain the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. & The CW. No offence intended nor monies made from this presentation. For entertainment purposes only.

 

 

 

Sam ducks down, his shoulder slamming against a nearby tree trunk. The bugbear pushes through the underbrush barely a few feet from him, and he fumbles with his crossbow, his hands shaking, sweat and blood trickling into his eyes and nearly blinding him. 

He can barely see his hands a foot in front of him, despite the full moon.

"C'mon, c'mon!" he hisses to himself, the shortened shaft of the poison-soaked arrow all slicked up with sweat and far too uncooperative. He struggles with it some more, and the creature howls again, a deep, gurgling, skin crawling sound that chills Sam to his very marrow. There's silence for a brief moment, and his stomach flip flops as the crunching and snapping of twigs and branches grows louder. 

"Fuck." 

The damned thing's found him...again.

The arrow finally slides into place with a satisfying _click_ , and Sam's up in an instant, aiming his crossbow in the direction of the approaching creature. 

The bugbear bellows again, and there's a sharp _crack!_ from just above his head.

Sam barely has time to throw an arm over his head as a large branch crashes down and smothers him. He sees stars, the crossbow's ripped from his hand, and he's shoved to the ground beneath a web of sharp, scratching tree limbs and dry leaves. His right leg twists the wrong way and he cries out, the large branch landing across his waist and pinning him to the ground. 

"Dean!"

He struggles to sit up and wrench himself free; the crossbow lies a few inches beyond his grasping fingers. 

It might as well be a mile away.

"Dean! Damn it, help me!" he yells, shocked at the terror filling his voice. 

Yeah, he's a Hunter; but any Hunter who’s said that he’s never been scared shitless was lying through his teeth.

"Dean!!"

The moon breaks through the thin clouds, and thin, blue light filters through the canopy of nearly leafless braches high over head. Sam can see the huge shadow a few feet away, growing closer by the second. He hears the bugbear’s deep, raspy breaths, the crackle and snap of brittle twigs and leaves beneath its approaching feet. 

Another second, and it's towering over him, rising from its haunches to its full height. Even flat on the ground Sam can feel the heat of its fetid breath and the rotted, overwhelming smell of blood carried upon it. 

The bugbear bares its double row of razor sharp teeth, the venom now freely dripping from both of her huge fangs. 

He tries to push himself away, but the creature stomps on the fallen branch with all its weight, ramming it firmly into Sam's gut.

Sam gasps in pain as the bugbear snarls in victory, shaking her massive head back and forth, globs of venom and spittle flying in all directions. Sam holds his breath as she slowly leans down, her huge eyes unbelievably red, blazing, as if the very fires of Hell itself burn behind them.

He's trapped, cornered, done for. 

He fights to calm himself, to even out his breathing, to relax. He may be about to die, but he's going to try to face it with his eyes wide open. He takes a deep breath, hoisting himself up on his elbows.

"C'mon, don't just stand there. Do it!" he spits out with the last of his bravado.

The bugbear pauses a moment, cocking its misshapen head to one side, and Sam can barely restrain a laugh; he'd be damned if the fucking thing didn't just now look like an overgrown dog. The creature reaches down with a huge paw, roughly shoving Sam's head over and down, exposing his neck. Venom drips on him, unbelievably hot and burning, her moist breath washing over his sweaty, exposed skin and sending torrents of shivers down his spine.

"Be over soon, be over soon," Sam chants, finally giving in and closing his eyes. The thoughts going through his mind now, which he's more than certain are his last, are of how disappointed his Dad and Dean are going to be. 

How he's failed them.

He's certain the thing’s fangs are nearly on him when three arrows slice through the air. They find their targets with slick squishing sounds, and the creature howls, almost directly into Sam's ear. 

Sam screams in pain as the bugbear’s claws rake across his right cheek and neck, and the next instant, the monster falls beside him in one giant, smelly heap.

"Sammy! You okay?" Dean's at his side in a matter of seconds, his brother's calloused hands immediately all over him, checking every available inch of his body for wounds and injuries. 

"She scratched me." 

"Shit!" Dean fishes a large vial from his jacket and uncorks it. "Close your eyes!"

Sam complies as Dean splashes the venom's counteragent onto the wounds on his cheek and neck; there's a faint hissing and sizzling as the solution does its thing, and Sam groans loudly.

"Damn, man, what took you so long?"

Before Dean can reply, Sam looks up as their temporary partner and guide ambles up to them, crossbow casually slung over her left shoulder. 

"Wouldn't a been a problem if'n you'd had half a wit about you, son." Rema Coultier chuckles and plants an unfiltered cigarette between her lips. "Good thing at least one of yuns takes after your daddy," she adds, striking a match on the butt of her crossbow. 

"Yeah, great," Dean says, turning away to help Sam shove the branch off of his legs. 

"Rema's right," Sam groans, slowly regaining his feet. "I screwed up."

"Not now, little brother."

Even though Sam can hear the relief in his brother's voice, he knows that there'll be hell to pay once they get back to their motel. Rema merely said out loud what Dean was thinking, Sam's sure of it.

Dean examines Sam's scratches, turning Sam's head this way and that to get a good look at them. "If any venom got in those, the counter agent should take care of it." He looks Sam over from head to toe. "You okay? Anything broken?" 

Sam shakes his head, unable to meet Dean's eyes. He'll be bruised and sore as hell for a few days, but no broken bones. "No, I think I'm fine."

Rema chuckles again as she unsheathes her huge bowie knife. "Don't forget, boys, we've still a den o' nasty bugbear pups to squash before it's Miller time." She blows out a huge puff of smoke, the cigarette dangling impossibly from her lips as she deftly slashes across the creature's throat. 

Sam watches as she removes the bugbear’s poison glands and thyroid with a surgical precision; she shoves the slimy messes into a leather pouch, which she stuffs into her coat pocket. "A little chantin', some salt and gasoline, and that's one less nasty around these parts." She cackles again, gesturing deep into the forest. "Let's move it, girls, while we're young!" 

Dean growls as Rema marches past them, clouds of smoke trailing around and behind her as she tromps away. 

Dean turns to Sam, his expression not at all one of relief. "Can you keep going?" 

It's less of a question and more of an order. 

"Yeah, I can," Sam says, his voice rough. "How hard can it be to knock off a few puppies, right?"

Dean jabs a finger into Sam's chest. "This isn't a joke, Scully. You almost got yourself killed, here." 

"Dean," Sam responds, hating himself for feeling like he's ten years old all over again and being punished for eating the last of the Lucky Charms. "I'll be more careful."

Dean pauses a long moment, his eyes glistening in the moon light. Sam notes how tired his older brother looks; way too tired for someone Dean's age. The hunts are taking their toll, of course, but Dean also insists on carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. 

Sam hates the thought that he's made life harder for Dean somehow, and times like this make Sam feel even worse. 

Dean wipes his nose on the back of his hand, wincing as he bends down to retrieve Sam's crossbow. "I sure as hell hope this thing's not messed up. We may need it later."

Sam takes a few steps closer to Dean. "I said I'd be careful."

"Damn straight," Dean says, shoving the weapon into Sam's chest. "I sure as shit don't want to be the one to tell Dad that you're dead."

Sam makes to reply but he's cut off.

"Damn it all to next Wednesday!" Rema shouts from the shadows. "You two are worse than a pair of teen-age girls on a K Mart shopping spree! Let's go! I'm fuckin’ thirsty!"

"You heard her," Dean deadpans, gesturing broadly. 

Sam nods and follows Dean and Rema deeper into the Tennessee woods, not at all eager to find out what a den of bugbear pups looks like...

**~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~**

Two hours and a quick shower later, Sam's sitting in what has to be Crossville's skankiest bar, Billy's, drinking nearly warm Budweiser straight from the bottle.

Sam usually isn’t the sort to be too picky, and he's used to making do with whatever fleabag motel or run-down bar they come across while on the road. Most times there aren't a lot of choices, but that wasn't the case tonight. They'd passed more than a few respectable looking places before Rema and Dean agreed on Billy's. Sam knows why they're here, though: Billy's is small and out of the way, much like the Roadhouse. 

Just scary enough to ensure that only the toughest or most adventurous locals patronize it. 

The perfect hangout for Hunters.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself.

Sam leans back in his chair, content for the moment simply to watch everything. He’s seated at the best table in the house, at least as far as he’s concerned. It’s right in the front corner of the place, and there’s nothing behind him but wall. He’s got a good view of the entire bar, including the restrooms and both exits. 

He drains his beer, slamming the empty bottle to the table much harder than he’d intended. The bugbear‘s scratches to his cheek and neck hurt like hell, but nothing compared to his wounded pride. As expected, Dean'd laid into him the instant they'd climbed into the Impala, and his brother hadn’t let up until they’d opened the front door to Billy’s.

Sam waves to the far too perky waitress, who smiles and nods in acknowledgement. She’s been eyeing him hungrily all night, not unlike the bugbear, and he’s not in the mood. 

He glances toward the pool table, and Dean’s still there, nursing his beer and shooting the shit with Rema and Rema’s daughter, Crystal. 

Sam’s not entirely sure exactly what’s pissing him off more: the way Dean’s ignoring him as a sort of punishment, or the way Dean’s fawning all over Crystal. 

Either one is completely unpalatable, but both...at once...

“Fuck."

“I'd be up for that, but I have to say, I prefer a bit of courtin’ first.”

Sam looks up, horrified to see the waitress standing right next to him, a fresh Bud on her battered, cork-lined tray. 

“Oh, sorry,” he stammers, fumbling in his pocket for some money. “I was just, you know, thinking out loud.” He looks up at her and flashes his best puppy-dog expression. 

“That‘s okay,” she replies, gently placing his beer bottle on the table and sweeping away the empty. “Totally not a problem, um...“ She cocks her head to one side, her fire red curls swaying about in the smoke-filled air.

“Um, Sam. M’name’s Sam.”

“Pleasure, Sam,” she says with a wide smile. “I’m Trinity.”

_Of course you are._

“Right. Pleased to meet you, uh, Trinity.”

She nods and giggles. “But you can call me Trini. Most folks do.”

“Whatever you want,” Sam answers, scratching at his bruises and reaching for his beer.

“You’re not from around here, right?” Trinity says, pausing a moment before stepping closer. 

_Oh, please, not now._

“Yeah, um, we’re friends of Rema Coultier.” Sam takes a deep pull on his beer. 

“Oh,” Trinity says, wrinkling her nose and smoothing her faded Journey concert t-shirt with her free hand. “She’s whacked.”

“That’s not very cool. Why do you say that?”

Trinity rolls her eyes. “She’s just, I dunno, weird. Always talkin’ about bizarre stuff, carrying guns and wearin’ all that leather and such.” She sighs heavily. “Her daughter’s of the same cloth. They‘re always around when something messed up goes down. And ya know the worst thing?”

Sam leans forward. “No. What?”

“Crazy Coultier drives one of those hybrid car things,” Trinity says with a sneer. “S'not normal is all I’m sayin’”

“Hookay,” Sam replies, nodding. He peers around Trinity to gain a better view of the pool table.

Trinity turns slightly to follow Sam’s gaze. “Oh, I get it now,” she nods. “You’ve got the hots for Crystal.”

Sam nearly spits out his Budweiser. “Um, no, not really,” he splutters, wiping at his chin.

“Well, who then?” 

“No one,” Sam shoots back, sounding more defensive than he intends. He leans to his left again, watching as Dean sinks a ball and raises his cue stick in triumph. 

Trinity makes note of his faint smile. “Oh. Right. Shoulda known.”

Sam looks up at her, furrowing his brow. “You should’ve known _what_?”

“Never mind,” Trinity sighs, waving her free hand dismissively. “Here’s a little something from your, uh, _friend_.” She glowers down at Sam, plopping a shot glass full of some sort of liquor onto the table. 

“Thanks.” 

Sam holds out a ten for the beer, and Trinity snatches the bill just as triumphant hollers erupt from the pool table area. Both Sam and Trinity look over in time to see Dean holding his cue stick high over his head. He’s pumping his other fist up and down, an incredibly wide smile on his face. Dean looks straight at Sam and whips his cue around, pointing it right at Sam and winking. 

Trinity looks down on Sam, one penciled eyebrow arched high. “That’s gross.” She roots around in her fanny pack and holds out a few crumpled bills as change. 

“Keep it,” Sam says tiredly, shaking his head.

“Thanks,” Trinity sneers, stuffing the tip into her pack. “But you might want to be careful. Most folks around here don’t cotton to your type.”

“And exactly what _type_ is that?” 

Trinity pulls a face before she walks away, and it’s all Sam can do to keep from laughing out loud. 

He downs his shot, which is either Jim Beam or watered down Jack Daniels. Definitely a peace offering of sorts from Dean. Sam leans back in his chair again, beer in hand, watching as Trinity chatters away to the bartender. About him and Dean being queer, no doubt. 

It doesn’t matter; it happens all the time. They won’t be around long enough for it to make a difference, anyway.

Sam watches as Dean collects the money from his latest win. By this point it's pretty clear that Dean's a ringer, so he's having a bit of trouble rounding up willing players for another round. Judging by the shit-eating grin on his brother's face, Sam's absolutely certain that they've made out like, well, bandits. 

There's a lull as the jukebox changes CD's, and the ambient noise level spikes sharply. Sam pulls on his beer, once again scanning the bar and seeing nothing but a bunch of regular folk drowning their problems in alcohol. The next tune starts blaring from the scratchy speakers and Sam smiles; it's Beck's "Nausea," which is a pleasant change from the uneasy mix of corporate country or southern rock that's been playing all evening.

Sam glances toward the pool table, noting that Dean's relinquished control of it. He's sitting on one of the high stools that surround the pool table, his head cocked to one side, listening intently as Rema relates what has to be another of her tall tales. Dean's holding his beer with one hand, while the other curls around Crystal's waist. 

Sam snorts as Crystal presses closer to Dean, one hand around Dean's shoulder, the other languidly caressing Dean's inner thigh. Sam stares, unable to tear his gaze away from Dean and Crystal. 

"Whatsa matter? Upset your boyfriend's switching teams for the night?"

Sam jerks out of his reverie as Trinity plonks another bottle of beer down on his table. It overflows, a stream of foam running down the bottle and spilling all over the table.

"He's _not_ my boyfriend," Sam mutters as he attempts to wipe up the mess.

" _Whatever_ he is, that's from him." Trinity spins on a heel and swishes her way back toward the bar.

Sam shakes his head as he reaches for the fresh beer. 

If there's one thing Sam wants, it's for Dean to be happy. Or as happy as he can be in their situation. So why should it bother him that Dean's most likely going to get laid? Why does he feel so anxious lately whenever anyone else gets close to Dean? 

Sam would do anything for his brother; hell, that's why he's with Dean right now and not back at Stanford.

"Stanford," he says aloud, the once-familiar word feeling strange on his lips. 

Sam's given it all up for Dean, and every time that he thinks he's okay with it, that he's figured it all out and dotted all the i's and crossed the t's, something like this happens. He fucks up, nearly killing himself, or Dean, or both of them. Everything spins out of control again, and nothing makes sense.

Like now. 

Watching Dean and Crystal. 

Sam can barely restrain the urge to jump up and shove Crazy Coultier, Jr. to the floorboards. 

Why, exactly? 

Is he jealous? Jealous that someone else, Crystal in this case, gets to be so close to Dean? To feel him, to touch him, to hang all over him? Jealous that Dean actually appears to like the attention?

Is that it? 

Sam shifts in his chair, the beginnings of a hard-on stirring in his jeans.

He knows that his feelings for his brother have been in a constant state of flux ever since they've hit the road in the Impala. Well, that's not entirely correct; flux indicates a random fluctuation, back and forth, all over the place. But what's happening with Sam's feelings isn't random, not by a long shot. They're moving in a very specific direction, that, as the days go by, gets harder and harder to ignore. 

Sam not only loves his big brother Dean; he can feel himself falling in love with his big brother Dean. 

It'd be laughable if it weren't so painfully true. Sam knows it's absurd and illogical, not to mention completely whacked. 

If things were different, it wouldn't be happening. But it is happening, and the strangest thing of all is that deep down, Sam doesn't mind. 

Society and morality be damned, he wants his brother. 

In every way possible.

Sam chuckles darkly, taking another swallow of Bud. 

He'll have to write it down somewhere. The exact date, time and place of his epiphany: 

_October 13, 2006, 1:35 am, in Billy's Bar, Crossville, Tennessee._

"Perfect." 

Sam looks back over toward the pool table; Rema's left Dean and Crystal to their own devices. Crystal's now in Dean's lap, leaning in so close that her forehead's nearly touching Dean's. 

Sam sits up and drains his beer, setting the empty bottle on the table. 

He should know better. He shouldn't let his emotions get the best of him. Just because he's made a decision of sorts doesn't mean that Dean has to make the same one, either, now or later. But Sam's absolutely fucking certain that Dean feels the same way. 

Sam doesn't know how he does, or why, but he just does. 

Dean needs him, badly. Not only for the hunts, but in every other way. Dean'd be lost without him, and Sam knows that the reverse is also true. Sometimes it's almost as if Sam could reach out and grab hold of Dean's desire as if it were a solid, corporeal thing. 

And the more Sam feels the need for his brother, the more Dean seems to shove Sam away.

Like tonight. 

Sam knows he shouldn’t be pissed at Crystal. Who could blame her for wanting a piece of Dean? He's a catch, all cock-sure and suave, but still incredibly warm and just vulnerable enough to be completely irresistible. Of course she doesn’t know how much of a hero Dean is. How totally brave and dedicated he is to the family business, or how many lives he’s saved, or how many times he’s risked his life and nearly lost. 

There’s only one person on earth that knows all that about Dean, and it's Sam. And he stumbles across another realization: he absolutely hates it when people fuck with Dean. 

Figuratively _and_ literally.

Dean smiles and takes a drink from his beer, and Sam can’t believe how obscenely Dean’s lips caress the mouth of the bottle. Crystal giggles and leans in still closer. 

Sam gestures to Trinity for another beer, and the waitress rolls her eyes and nods in acknowledgement. 

He loves Dean, more than just about anything. And now, apparently, he wants him too, and maybe that's part of what’s been so confusing and throwing Sam for a loop. It's become harder and harder for Sam to look at Dean and not entertain the most prurient of thoughts. 

To imagine Dean with his shirt off. Or in just his boxer briefs. 

Or how fucking gorgeous Dean is when he's stark naked and dripping wet, stepping out of the shower. 

Sam can’t count the times that he’s allowed himself lingering glimpses of his brother’s reflection in the bathroom mirror while shaving; hell, he’s carried on innumerable conversations with Dean during their morning bathroom routine. Dean’s not exactly modest, and it’s only recently struck Sam how much he looks forward to seeing his brother with a cheap, thin, motel towel barely clinging to his hips...

Does a straight guy think like that about other guys?

Ever? 

Was this something that Sam had always had in him, hidden, just below the surface, waiting for the right sequence of events to trigger it? 

He’d been aware of ‘different’ people all through his middle school years, somehow innately intuitive that he was one of ‘them’, a misfit, an outcast. While he did grow up without a mother, being from a single-parent family wasn’t in itself that uncommon. 

What was bizarre was that Sam had spent most of his time until he was ten in crusty, fleabag motels, traveling from small town to small town with his Dad and Dean. If anything, this was what really set Sam apart from everyone else, and he never really seemed to overcome the ‘new kid’ syndrome once they settled back down in Kansas. 

Sam adjusted after a time, but he was still acutely aware that his home life wasn't anywhere near what he saw next door or on television. The Winchesters and the Bradys had little, if anything in common. 

Very few, if any of the other kids had nearly totally absent fathers who’d had gun and knife collections that rivaled the displays at the quarterly gun shows at the Lawrence National Guard Armory. Most kids didn’t have a big brother whose favorite pastime had been hurling daggers or Chinese throwing stars at life-sized straw dummies in the backyard. 

Trinity places Sam’s fresh beer and another shot on the table, sparing him a rather perplexed expression. Sam shrugs and hefts his Bud in a sloppy salute, and Trinity sticks out her tongue as she flounces back toward the bar. 

Sam glances over at the pool table area again, but Dean and Crystal have moved to the end of the bar, now engaged in deep conversation. At least they aren’t exploring each other’s dental work with their tongues. 

He downs his whiskey, chasing it with a huge swallow of Bud. 

It was in high school that Sam also found a new group of second class citizens to identify with: the queers. His best friend since the seventh grade, Eric Ekstein, had confided to Sam on the first day of their freshman year that he was into guys in general, and Sam in particular. 

While surprised and oddly flattered by his friend’s profession of angst-ridden teen love, Sam reacted by avoiding Eric for the next several weeks, finally accepting if not totally understanding his friend’s feelings. 

And Eric clearly needed any support Sam could offer, in terms of an understanding confidant, a friendly shoulder to cry on, and ultimately, a protector. Sam was rather intimidating without having to work at it, as not many of the other kids were nearly six foot three in the ninth grade.

As much as Sam identified with Eric’s pariah status, he knew that he really didn’t feel the same attraction to his friend, or to any of the other guys in school. At the time, he realized that he wasn’t gay, and he's fairly certain that his orientation hadn’t significantly changed of late. 

So was he somewhere in between, then? Bi-sexual, perhaps? Pan-sexual? 

He’d certainly known more than a few fellow students that had self-identified as any of those while at Stanford. Unsurprisingly, he’d been propositioned by members of his own gender on more than a few occasions. But he simply wasn’t gay, or queer or bi, thanks very much. 

And he isn’t now. At least he doesn't think so. But then again, Sam’s always hated labels, and he and Dean don’t exactly operate in the real world. 

So with Dean it must be something else. 

Is it possible to be totally into one guy, and not any others? To find one particular person so damned attractive and desirable that all past experiences don’t apply? And all that aside, what about the _mackin’ on the sibling_ aspect of it all?

Sam laughs out loud, amused at himself for falling into what Dean refers to as his “Emo-Sam” mode. 

Whatever. All in all, it doesn't matter, really. 

It's the way that it is, and Sam's had enough of Dean's waffling back and forth. 

He'd thought that they'd worked things through in Ohio. 

Back then, the discussion had been focused on Sam’s dreams and visions of Jess. Talking about it had helped immensely, and Sam had to grudgingly admit that Dean had made a very valid point. Jess wouldn't want Sam to just sit on the sidelines and waste away. She'd want him to enjoy himself, to be happy. 

Not that she’d endorse Sam being happy with his own brother...but then again, who knows?

Dean didn't get all weird after their...their...whatever the hell it was. He'd said nothing about their fumbling encounter in the motel room at all, which almost made things worse. Dean clearly got into it, and Sam could actually feel it when Dean let himself go and enjoy the moment. 

But then Dean had pushed him away ever since.

Not only pushed Sam away, but Dean'd gone out of his way to set him up with whatever girl crossed their path. 

Sure, Sarah Blake was smart, hot, and definitely into him; they clicked fairly well. But Sam knows that the only reason he let Sarah go down on him before they left New Paltz was because he'd been so horny he'd been about to bust. 

And the entire time that Sarah's wonderfully skilled mouth teased its way down his stomach and all along his dick, Sam'd been imagining that it was Dean doing it instead. 

Sam’s fairly certain that Dean's fucked around with men before, even though Dean never mentions it, of course. As a matter of fact, Dean goes out of his way to dispel any impressions, overt or otherwise, that would lead anyone to believe that he might not mind the company of other guys. 

 

To say that Dean overcompensates is the understatement of the century.

Sam rubs at his temple, well aware that he's quickly becoming plastered. 

He’s the type of drunk where the alcohol simply amplifies whatever mood he's in when he starts drinking. If he's in a good mood, he's a happy drunk. If he's a bit down, it's tear-in-the-beer time. 

And if he’s anxious or upset, watch out.

Which doesn’t bode well for any discussion that Sam hopes to engage in later on.

“Fuck it,” he growls, draining his beer and standing up rather unsteadily. The room tilts and wavers, and he takes several deep breaths to try to clear his fuzzy brain. After some vigorous head shakes and shoulder rolls, Sam threads his way through the increasingly boisterous crowd, heading toward Dean and Crystal.

Sam’s in the mood for answers, and tonight he’s not going to settle for anything less.

"Yo, Dean. Let's go."

Sam taps Dean's shoulder rather hard, drawing himself up to his full height. Dean looks over his shoulder, a crooked smile on his lips. Crystal's got one arm draped around Dean's shoulders while the other is...wherever it is, Sam can't see it. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Not now, Sammy. Go on and hit the bowling machine. You love that game. Need some quarters?"

Crystal grins, the tip of her tongue slowly licking her heavily lipsticked lips. 

"No, Dean. I don't want to _bowl_. I want to leave. Now!"

"Does he always whine like this?" Crystal asks, cocking her head to one side.

"Sometimes," Dean replies, swiveling their stool around to face Sam. "C'mon, little brother. Gimme a break here, okay?"

"We...need...to...go, Dean! And we need to talk."

"Sam, I'm serious. You're really starting to piss me off, dude."

"Yeah?" Sam snarls back and grabs a fistful of Dean's t-shirt. "So are you, _dude_!"

"Hey, take a chill pill," Crystal says. "You're acting like a total dick."

"Stay out of this!" Sam shoots back.

"Hey!" Dean answers, the first hint of annoyance threading through his voice. "Watch that mouth of yours, Sammy, or I'll--"

"Or you'll what?"

"You're drunk."

"So?"

"What's the matter with you? You've been acting like a jerk ever since--"

"Ever since I was nearly killed by some demonic bear thing?" Sam says far too loudly. "I'm tired, I feel like shit, and I just want to get the fuck out of here!"

"Lover's spat?" Trinity offers as she wafts by, beer tray in hand.

"Shut up!" Sam and Dean reply in perfect unison.

Crystal pushes herself from Dean's lap. "Look, you two obviously need some quality time. I'll leave you to it."

"Hey, c'mon, Crystal," Dean implores, standing up and gesturing widely, palms upturned. "Gimme a minute here. I'll get Sam a cab, and then--"

"I don't want a fucking cab!" Sam yells. "This is important. Let's go, man, please?"

Several nearby patrons turn to stare at them as Crystal scratches at her temple and nods.

"Yeah, well, so much for that." She clears her throat, looking Dean over from head to toe and back again. "Next time you stop by, be sure to come alone, okay?" She grabs her purse from the bar and turns to walk away.

Dean shoots Sam a wicked stare. "Crystal! Hang on!" he calls after her.

"Fuck this!" Sam growls, giving Dean a firm shove and stumbling toward the front door. "I'm outta here."

He makes it twenty feet past the Impala before a firm hand grips him by the shoulder and spins him around.

"What died and crawled up your ass?" Dean says, his angry flush clearly visible in the harsh light from the mercury vapor lamps circling the large parking lot. "That was so far out of line--"

"Let me go, man," Sam spits out, wrenching himself from Dean's grip, He overcompensates, losing his footing on the loose gravel and spinning to the ground in a tangled heap.

"You're plastered."

"No shit," Sam barks out, heaving himself up and clumsily dusting himself off. "Yeah, you're the older one, all right. Nothin‘ gets by you!" He turns around and lurches back toward Billy's, intending to make his way through the back streets to their motel. It's more than a few miles, but Sam doesn't care; the exertion and fresh air will do him a world of good. He weaves his way through the maze of parked vehicles, the sounds of Dean's boots on gravel following behind.

"For fuck's sake, Sam, you don't even know where you're going!"

"Away from here's a good start," Sam calls over his shoulder, banging his knee on the rear bumper of a huge four by four pick-up truck. "Damn it!"

"Sammy, wait!"

Sam waves dismissively toward his brother as he enters the narrow walkway between the south wall of Billy's and the eight foot high concrete block wall belonging to the combination garage and salvage yard next door. Sam stumbles through the collection of trash and auto parts that litter the walkway. He's barely a third of the way down it when Dean catches up with him again.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Dean calls out.

Sam skids to a halt and whirls around, and he can't stifle a small chuckle at his brother's startled expression. "You don't really want to know."

Dean takes a few steps closer, his arms wide. "If it's about the bugbear earlier, I'm sorry I ripped you a new asshole, but--" He pauses as Sam shakes his head. "What?"

"That's not it," Sam mumbles, backing up and leaning against the wall of the bar. The wall's actually vibrating with the _thump thump thump_ of the jukebox. Sam hears the wild laughter of the crowd from a partially open window several feet down the wall in the direction they've just come. Further up, near the end of the makeshift alley, the blower from the bar's kitchen belches out hot, greasy air. 

"That's not it at all."

"Is it about Jess, then?"

Sam shakes his head. "I haven't had a dream or vision of her in days."

Dean steps in front of Sam, looking up. "So what is it? I can't remember the last time I've seen you this wasted."

Sam sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He looks up, a vast array of stars stretched out just behind thin wisps of cloud. They look like clawed fingers in some great hand. "Dean, man, I'm sorry I freaked out on you. I just had to get out of there, okay?"

"Oh no, you don't get off that easy. Something's eating you. Big time."

Sam snorts. "Forget it."

"Sam!"

"I told you, you don't want to know."

Dean grabs Sam by his shoulders and squeezes. Hard. "Yeah, you've said. And you're wrong." He releases his grip, smoothing out Sam's shirt and turning around to lean against the bar's wall next to Sam. "So, until you're ready to spill the beans, I suppose we'll just stand here."

"Fine," Sam replies, folding his arms across his chest. 

"Fine." Dean assumes a similar posture.

There's a long pause before Sam looks over at Dean, who's staring up at the night sky. 

Sam takes a deep breath. "Ohio."

Dean pulls a face. "What?"

"I said, Ohio."

"What about it?"

"That's what I want to talk about."

"Sammy, I don't--"

Sam watches as realization dawns on Dean's face; Dean's expression instantly hardens. 

"Not this shit again."

Sam blows out a breath, slapping his big hands against his thighs. "I _knew_ you'd say that."

"You're drunk."

"That doesn't change anything," Sam retorts. "I just don't get it, Dean. I thought we'd finally agreed--"

"Agreed to what, exactly?" Dean shoots back. "I don't remember agreeing to anything."

Sam feels the bugbear scratches begin to burn and sting again. He winces slightly, leaning his head back against the wall. "You said you were okay with it."

"Sammy, bro, you're doing that revisionist history thing again. Whatever you think happened--"

Sam shoves away from the wall, whirling about to face Dean. He stumbles a bit, bracing himself against the wall, his hands just above Dean's shoulders. "I know what happened. I was there..."

"Sam..."

"...and so were you...Dean..."

"...we can't..."

"...Dean...Dean, god, Dean!" Sam presses his hips and groin against Dean, who responds by flattening himself against the wall.

"...do this shit anymore!"

Sam lets his arms drop down, his hands resting on Dean's shoulders. "Yeah, we can. I know you want to. I can fuckin' feel it! You can't hide from me." He thrusts one hand between them, the backs of his long fingers tracing the length of Dean's clearly hard jean-clad cock. "See? Can't hide that either, bro." He leans in, nuzzling the side of Dean's stubbled cheek.

"Sam, please," Dean murmurs. "We shouldn't."

"Why, Dean, why?"

"It isn't...it's not..." Dean pauses a long moment, and the crowd inside cheers at something. "It's not right."

"Fuck that," Sam breathes, licking and nibbling his way all along Dean's jaw line. "Since when are you so concerned about doin’ the right thing? Never been the Winchester way, has it? And this is different. It’s us. And I need you, man."

Dean sucks in a deep breath, both of his hands clamped around Sam's narrow waist. "But you're not...I'm...we're--" He groans as Sam grinds into him. "--not gay."

Sam chuckles lifting his head up and staring at Dean. He knows he's smiling like an idiot but doesn't care. "A word, Dean. Is that all we are? Condensed down to a type, a category? Does a word change a single damn thing about us? So what if we are? Big fucking deal. We're all we've got. We're all we're _ever_ gonna have!"

Dean swallows hard, his fingers sliding up and under Sam's untucked t-shirt. "Sammy, man...what about Sarah? I know you were into her. I'm pretty sure you two got it on."

"We did," Sam replies, his hand moving upward to slide down inside the loose waistband of Dean's jeans. 

"You could get any girl you want." Dean whimpers as he pushes his hips forward.

"Yeah, I could. And so can you. Doesn't change a thing." Sam's hand palms Dean's hard cock through the fabric of his boxers. "But I know what I want. I know what I need." He nuzzles Dean's cheek. "You."

"Oh, fuck, Sam!" Dean murmurs, arching his neck to allow Sam better access. "Not right..."

"We're never gonna have normal lives," Sam whispers between licks and nips to Dean's neck. "You know it! Always a new town, a new girl. Maybe we mess around, maybe we don't. But in the end, we always leave."

"Sam..."

"In the end, all we'll ever have..."

"...god _damn_ it, Sam!"

"...is each other." Sam presses himself fully against Dean, bringing both hands up to frame Dean's face. "No matter what, it'll always just be us, Dean." Sam gazes at his older brother, pausing to let his words sink in. 

Dean blinks repeatedly, and for Sam, time grinds to a halt. 

There's no more _thump thump thump_ of the music. 

No more drunken laughing or whirring of crickets or the rumble and whine of trucks on the nearby highway. 

There's only night and breeze and stars and Dean.

And Sam waits; he'd wait forever if he had to; he'd hate it, but he would.

For his brother. For Dean.

For the only one that can save him.

And then the corner of Dean's mouth crinkles upward, and a smile spreads across his face. 

Sam nods slightly as Dean barely cocks his head to one side. Sam slowly leans in, carefully angling his own head in the opposite direction. Sam lets one hand fall to Dean's hip while the other curls around the base of Dean's neck. 

Dean closes his eyes and Sam moves closer still, Dean's lips parting slightly in anticipation. 

_"Sammy."_

Dean murmurs his name so softly that Sam can barely hear it.

And still Sam moves closer, and he feels Dean's whiskey infused breath on his face, all tangyhot and wonderfulsweet. 

"I know, man, I know," Sam breathes, his erection slowly grinding into Dean's. "It's all okay, now."

Dean's hands ghost their way up and all along the wide expanse of Sam's back, and Sam feels his skin break out in gooseflesh. 

"Fuckin' love you, Dean."

Their lips press together, tongues push past each other, hands caress and squeeze and grasp, each trying to get as close to the other as possible. 

Sam's never felt so good, so alive, so whole as he does at this very moment. 

And for the moment, nothing else matters.

Just the night and breeze and stars and Dean.

Always Dean.

Always.

 

**_~~~~~ fin ~~~~~_ **


End file.
